


Post The Spectre of The Gun

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: 1 single scene, Drabble, It's basically one outcome of the follow up I think should and would have happened after s3e6, McCoy is a dipshit and I love him, Other, Spock's room's arrangement is different because I'm an idiot, Theyre 'friends'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 08:12:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18220526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's gamma shift and Bones rams Spock's door down with a bottle of brandy (but a lot quieter)





	Post The Spectre of The Gun

During gamma shift when the majority of the crew were fast asleep, his doors chimed, and slid open with a buzz. It was a silhouette who appeared in the doorway, his hands behind his back, hair dishevelled, and crowned by a halo from the strip lights in the corridor. As he observed the person to be too tall, and too slim to be Jim, Spock regretted his lack of decision in getting decent before allowing in visitors. 

“Doctor?” was his quiet inquiry. 

McCoy hummed in assent. His foot hovered mid-step, waiting for an invitation, watching the shadow of Spock turn sideways and sit up in bed, not before tossing some blanket to the side. Spock quickly made way behind the dressing panel, and called out as he grabbed his robes from the hatrack. 

“Computer, lights to thirty percent, temperature to 25 degrees Celsius. Come in, Doctor.”

Soon enough, as far as Spock could spy from the holes in the dressing panel’s latticework, McCoy was tentatively standing by the sole armchair in the room, gripping the backrest with one hand. He reemerged, and everything transcended to a new level of strange. McCoy refused to say the first words.

“To what do I owe this visit?” Spock asked. He noted, to his dismay, that his voice was coarse from sleep. Sleep, which he claimed to need as little as possible, was what he was caught in the midst of— the sickly spectre of vulnerability ghosted his mood. He crossed his arms. 

Spock requested whether the ship was in immediate danger, whether there were any medical emergencies, whether his expertise was needed or not. To all of these questions, McCoy’s answers were light shakes of his head, which Spock placed in his mental map as another juvenile characteristic. McCoy had a lot of them, which would make Spock doubtful to think that he could be a competent physician, let alone a chief surgeon, if only he did not know the mount of qualifications the man held. 

As Spock mused, silence had taken hold. 

“I…I…came to apologise.” McCoy said, speaking at last. 

“To apologise?” he echoed dimly. 

“To apologise about the whole Chekov thing.”

“The Chekov thing?”

“You _have_ to make me say it, don’t you?” McCoy muttered, suddenly and limply letting himself collapse on the seat; and revealing his other hand to be holding a bottle of what Spock assumed to be alcohol. In the red light, the bottle reflected as if made of mercury. Spock raised his eyebrows. McCoy probably couldn’t see it.

“When Scotty and I came over you down there. When we thought Chekov had died. We shouldn’t have done it. I know how close you’re with him.”

“He is an esteemed colleague.” Spock said flatly. “It’s fine, Doctor. You simply forget the existence of my human half. Though persistently, and continuously; I do not mind.”

McCoy hunched over his knees, sighing and rubbing his eyes, “Yeah, just torment me about this forever.”

“I am not tormenting you, Doctor. Simply observing.”

“Well,” McCoy said, and his sclera glistened as he looked up and smiled. “A drink, then? I heard that this one has no effect on your freaky Vulcan biology and _magnificent_ brain. Just mine.”

Spock sat down on the mat across him. McCoy went to grab flutes from the replicator.

“Your aim is to get intoxicated in the name of camaraderie?” he asked, now sipping on the drink in his hand. It was nothing like the bourbon they had acquired in Tombstone— it was soft, and it was, in a way, sweet.

McCoy laughed. A comforting sound. “You could call it that. Cheers, Spock."


End file.
